Poetry

I Am the Kitten Lily

by: Kaelyn Hvidsten

I am the kitten Lily.

A farm cat’s daughter, the last of my litter,

bound by birth to Rosie, my dearest sister.

I am the conqueror of squirrel towers, 

the foil of spring flowers,

and a terror to fairer feather-wearers.

Atop my carpeted throne,

I speak to you now as your Queen, your own.

There at your feet lies the treasure I seek —

a cupboard, containing my beloved BonkersTM treat.

Look into my eyes now, and tell me what you fear,

for you will know no harm, lest you deny me what’s here.

Look into my eyes, I say — protest is passé,

your defense will decay in the case of this catty cabaret.

Yes, your fingers grow ever nearer now,

I shall offer a bewitching “meow,”

for no one can resist the twitching

of my tail’s fluffy bough.

But— what’s this? Why do your fleshy paws falter? 

No! Unhand me you fiend! Lift me no farther!

My BonkersTM awaits me, let me down!

Do not forsake the power of this lion’s crown!

I will not be coddled like one of your screaming spawn.

I have dangerous cousins that could wreak hell upon—

Oh, this is actually quite nice…

Fine, you may pet me, if that is your vice,

but you cannot conceal forever what is rightfully mine

or else you may find 

the yarn ball of your years has reached the end of its twine.

Grasp of Iron

by: Sawyer Harvey

A trap a lie 

a life to die 

Flee and run 

Don’t fight for fun 

Yet no longer can you run so turn and fight

 fight for life a lie it is not to cry for all is nigh 

And as thy cannot fly thou is trapped wings clipped never to take flight

And so in thy mind take a flight fly along in craze for your end may be nigh 

So scrape and ply so hard thy nails never lose their orange a tinge of time 

Lost just as your mind in its wraps no wall to scrape to denote lights pass 

Nor light to see to notice things grown in time heard not seen a grime 

A thing built of time seeing in shadow or quick spurts of red not a torch but a head

So wait in line behind you lines watching your line fall in a line lost yet trapped 

So thy will stay forevermore lost in thy head gaining craze lonely with mind of dead

Full to the brim yet stuck building pressure behind nine bars of six walls 

Trapped in place three by three with nay good in thy mind but fading halls

And even those tinged by that incessant orange bled through thy time 

A product of iron like the hand with which you held all in line 

And the very bars that hold you nine by nine three by three for all your time

Thy hath no escape nor hope to hold nor strength to run all thy can do is sit and pine

So with no hope and a fallen line there is not to pine to but those bars nine by nine 

A cube in which you sit three by three lost of hope last of a line 

Fallen now yet to be forgot by all thy held in iron killed in iron lost for iron 

Thy desire now hold thy tight as is its task a cube bars nine by nine three by three 

Six walls of thy greed left to rust never to let thy free

So sit and watch a golden age a tinge of orange you so despise held back by lies

That now stand rusted just as the cage thy sit in festering in lies

Bars nine by nine to let thy see

Three by three wide to hold back thy tide

And six walls never to break never to let loose thy rage thy craze 

So thy may never claim our halls built upon the ashes of yours

For here comes our golden age a tinge of orange held in thy nails and thy craze

An age of fire a light to behold and warmth to be kept never in haze

Far from thy cage of iron and it’s creeping cold where thy hands have lost their grasp

A grasp of iron never beholden to gold

God Came to Me in the Bathtub . . .  

by: Kaelyn Hvidsten

God came to me in the bathtub the other day

naked, shaken,

colorless,

i sat at knifepoint,

thinking about how quickly the fireworks fade

when my gaze is glued to the rearview mirror.

He told me He loved me

He said,

“If you want me to get in the tub,

if you want me to sit next to you,

you have to move over”

he was there that night, too –

the night i can’t seem to kill.

he was there, 

sitting next to me.

holding me on the lifeguard tower,

he said,

“tell me something you’ve never told anyone before.”

the summer stars and i simply smiled.

he told me he loved me.

as i stood in my bathroom,

dripping diamond,

rust pooling at my toes,

i looked at myself 

for the first time

He wiped the fog from the mirror

and from my eyes,

and traced the edges of my nose, lips, chin

“Beautiful,” He breathed

i felt his breath on the roof that night, too –

the shingles and the whole world beneath us.

my head on his chest, 

i said,

“i hope you know how important you are to me.”

he and the summer stars simply stared in silence.

and the world below us began to turn.

the leaves and i flushed red.

a chill pressed against the languid air.

and i teetered alone, 

at knifepoint.

He was there as his car

disappeared around the corner,

kicking up ashen leaves

He held my hand 

when my friend said,

“he’s gone.”

i climbed into my bathtub,

feeling the gray seep deep underneath my skin

and when i finally moved over,

He sat next to me,

and He said,

“You’re not gray, 

but robed in pure, white light

You’re every color,

and right now, your blues are beautifully bright”

He told me He loves me

Forest

by: Peter Dale

If you look behind the swings 

You may observe some quite strange things 

The forest has some funny beasts 

 If you walk along the trees 

You’ll meet a snake named Emily 

But she’s not mean, she’s a sweetie 

There’s an elephant named Ted 

Who’ll bake you a big, fresh loaf of bread 

There’s a zebra named Benjamin 

I think he has a tooth of tin 

So never be mean to a forest friend

Be nice, they’ll love you to no end

Please, Hold My Hand

by: Aish Devulapalli

Please, hold my hand. It is a

pleasure to be walking through

this beautiful infinity by the side

of a light so dark in its glory,

understood and enigmatic 

all at once. For I want nothing

more than to completely allow it

to overtake me, but he has given

me his hand.

So please

Take my hand

As we walk through 

our 

little

infinity.

—his hands are home.

Squirrel

by: Sophia Bodor

the snow no longer

buries the brown earth

in its blanket

yet i still find a way

to defame the ground

that i stand on, with

my claws and tail and teeth

sinking into acorn flesh

peeling into unworthy shells

like bone - i break

at the sight of anything

beautiful

flowers crumble in my mouth, 

too precious for the lowest 

of beings - but

maybe purity is possible 

if i just learn to

forget my instincts

Starboard: For My Friends

by: Kaelyn Hvidsten

They say you cannot enter the woods

and leave unchanged

I suspect it is much the same with the sea –

I never thought I’d set sail in January

But I am beckoned by

bated breath,

tipping ink, 

the inky space between stars,

and years that yawn undeniably wide

in front of me

And so I sail in January

while the naked branches

run further than my mascara,

and the lake refuses to freeze

I nestle my head in the crook of the boat

and watch, transfixed,

as stars charted for vastly different courses

collide and blaze and die,

calling “starboard!” and passing one another in the puddled ink 

without a backward glance

But their tails leave afterimages for my future memory,

and I learn to appreciate their transitory brilliance,

for after their flight, no watchful eyes can ever be the same,

and I refuse to leave the earth unchanged

The Fall

by: Kaelyn Hvidsten

I feel even now how

time’s rough sands scratch at my shore,

how it carries out the tide —

slowly, then all at once,

while childhood is laid white and bare beneath it

I felt it as the moon

baked the edges of the summer

until her corners curled to cradle us there

and I pinned my hopes on

the perfume of pines,

pined for the broken eagle’s eye —

yellowing, swelling with years

I have yet to find

For who decides whether

wrinkled wisdom or untainted eyes

are more telling of the end?

the living lesson?

I live less on spring than autumn,

when the remembrances of aged oaks

threaten to pull the past before me,

and I must walk backward to face the future

I must face the end of it all:

not with a wrinkle or a cry,

but with the apathetic sigh of dying summer —

her blood, her breath, kissed into gnarled trees 

that refuse to fall before winter’s clouded call

and my back breaks beneath the autumn breeze

as I rake up the autumn leaves

The Sailor

by: Mac Hedtke

I once lived out on the sea

Wild and forever free

But the waves beckoned a storm

And they such destroyed my form

Now broken and cast away

I ponder those long-lost days

From sea to shining sea

What will this world next make of me?

Work in Progress

by: Kaelyn Hvidsten

A quilt is stretching over my head.

A melting pot of fabric

stolen moments stitched together

by the twine of time that barely holds

How long until I suffocate beneath its folds?

How long until the ripples cease until the branches

brittle and riddled with senescence

snap?

Only when I pause

and listen to my mind crying and the seconds dying

and the leaves the snow

the raindrops tumbling do the words

grains of hourglass sand

trickle over my tongue

Settling in my throat the words are familiar

I’ve hoarded others’ thoughts and changed the label

changed the price The words are a patchwork of store-bought cloth

I am a patchwork

How can I follow The Road Not Taken

when every road is trampled by the already-trodden?

You Make Me

by: Aish Devulapalli

You make me 

want to put words into

every 

crevice 

of this world.

Yet all I would say 

in the end:

eight letters. 

—i love you.